Murder Is Easy (5 page)

“Septicæmia, Lord Whitfield told me.”

“Yes—just a little scratch that got infected. Doctors run grave risks in the course of their profession, Mr. Fitzwilliam.”

“They do indeed,” said Luke.

Mr. Wake gave a sudden start.

“But I have wandered a long way from what we were talking about,” he said. “A gossiping old man, I am afraid. We were speaking of the survival of pagan death customs and of recent deaths. There was Lavinia Pinkerton—one of our more kindly Church helpers. Then there was that poor girl, Amy Gibbs—you might discover something in your line there, Mr. Fitzwilliam—there was just a suspicion, you know, that it might have been suicide—and
there are certain rather eerie rites in connection with that type of death. There is an aunt—not, I fear, a very estimable woman, and not very much attached to her niece—but a great talker.”

“Valuable,” said Luke.

“Then there was Tommy Pierce—he was in the choir at one time—a beautiful treble—quite angelic—but not a very angelic boy otherwise, I am afraid. We had to get rid of him in the end, he made the other boys behave so badly. Poor lad, I'm afraid he was not very much liked anywhere. He was dismissed from the post office where we got him a job as telegraph boy. He was in Mr. Abbot's office for a while, but there again he was dismissed very soon—interfered with some confidential papers, I believe. Then, of course, he was at Ashe Manor for a time, wasn't he, Miss Conway, as garden boy, and Lord Whitfield had to discharge him for gross impertinence. I was so sorry for his mother—a very decent hardworking soul. Miss Waynflete very kindly got him some odd window cleaning work. Lord Whitfield objected at first, then suddenly he gave in—actually it was sad that he did so.”

“Why?”

“Because the boy was killed that way. He was cleaning the top windows of the library (the old Hall, you know) and tried some silly fooling—dancing on the window ledge or something of that sort—lost his balance, or else became dizzy, and fell. A nasty business! He never recovered consciousness and died a few hours after they got him to hospital.”

“Did anyone see him fall?” asked Luke with interest.

“No. He was on the garden side—not the front of the house. They estimate he lay there for about half an hour before anyone found him.”

“Who did find him?”

“Miss Pinkerton. You remember, the lady I mentioned just now who was unfortunately killed in a street accident the other day. Poor soul, she was terribly upset. A nasty experience! She had obtained permission to take a cutting of some plants and found the boy there lying where he had fallen.”

“It must have been a very unpleasant shock,” said Luke thoughtfully.

“A greater shock,” he thought to himself, “than
you
know.”

“A young life cut short is a very sad thing,” said the old man, shaking his head. “Tommy's faults may have been mainly due to high spirits.”

“He was a disgusting bully,” said Bridget. “You know he was, Mr. Wake. Always tormenting cats and stray puppies and pinching other little boys.”

“I know—I know.” Mr. Wake shook his head sadly. “But you know, my dear Miss Conway, sometimes cruelty is not so much innate as due to the fact that imagination is slow in ripening. That is why if you conceive of a grown man with the mentality of a child you realize that the cunning and brutality of a lunatic may be quite unrealized by the man himself. A lack of growth somewhere, that, I am convinced, is at the root of much of the cruelty and stupid brutality in the world today. One must put away childish things—”

He shook his head and spread out his hands.

Bridget said in a voice suddenly hoarse:

“Yes, you're right. I know what you mean. A man who is a child is the most frightening thing in the world….”

Luke looked at her with some curiosity. He was convinced that she was thinking of some particular person, and although Lord
Whitfield was in some respects exceedingly childish, he did not believe she was thinking of him. Lord Whitfield was slightly ridiculous, but he was certainly not frightening.

Luke Fitzwilliam wondered very much whom the person Bridget was thinking of might be.

M
r. Wake murmured a few more names to himself.

“Let me see now—poor Mrs. Rose, and old Bell and that child of the Elkins and Harry Carter—they're not all my people, you understand. Mrs. Rose and Carter were dissenters. And that cold spell in March took off poor old Ben Stanbury at last—ninety-two he was.”

“Amy Gibbs died in April,” said Bridget.

“Yes, poor girl—a sad mistake to happen.”

Luke looked up to find Bridget watching him. She lowered her eyes quickly. He thought, with some annoyance:

“There's something here that I haven't got on to. Something to do with this girl Amy Gibbs.”

When they had taken leave of the vicar and were outside again, he said:

“Just who and what
was
Amy Gibbs?”

Bridget took a minute or two to answer. Then she said—and Luke noticed the slight constraint in her voice:

“Amy was one of the most inefficient housemaids I have ever known.”

“That's why she got the sack?”

“No. She stayed out after hours playing about with some young man. Gordon has very moral and old-fashioned views. Sin in his view does not take place until after eleven o'clock, but then it is rampant. So he gave the girl notice and she was impertinent about it!”

Luke asked: “A good-looking girl?”

“Very good-looking.”

“She's the one who swallowed hat paint in mistake for cough mixture?”

“Yes.”

“Rather a stupid thing to do?” Luke hazarded.

“Very stupid.”

“Was she stupid?”

“No, she was quite a sharp girl.”

Luke stole a look at her. He was puzzled. Her replies were given in an even tone, without emphasis or even much interest. But behind what she said, there was, he felt convinced, something not put into words.

At that moment Bridget stopped to speak to a tall man who swept off his hat and greeted her with breezy heartiness.

Bridget, after a word or two, introduced Luke.

“This is my cousin, Mr. Fitzwilliam, who is staying at the Manor. He's down here to write a book. This is Mr. Abbot.”

Luke looked at Mr. Abbot with some interest. This was the solicitor who had employed Tommy Pierce.

Luke had a somewhat illogical prejudice against lawyers in
general—based on the grounds that so many politicians were recruited from their ranks. Also their cautious habit of not committing themselves annoyed him. Mr. Abbot, however, was not at all the conventional type of lawyer, he was neither thin, spare, nor tight-lipped. He was a big florid man, dressed in tweeds with a hearty manner and a jovial effusiveness. There were little creases at the corners of his eyes, and the eyes themselves were more shrewd than one appreciated in a first casual glance.

“Writing a book, eh? Novel?”

“Folklore,” said Bridget.

“You've come to the right place for that,” said the lawyer. “Wonderfully interesting part of the world here.”

“So I've been led to understand,” said Luke. “I dare say you could help me a bit. You must come across curious old deeds—or know of some interesting surviving customs.”

“Well, I don't know about that—maybe—maybe—”

“Much belief in ghosts round here?” asked Luke.

“As to that I couldn't say—I really couldn't say.”

“No haunted house?”

“No—I don't know of anything of that kind.”

“There's the child superstition, of course,” said Luke. “Death of a boy child—a violent death that is—the boy always walks. Not a girl child—interesting that.”

“Very,” said Mr. Abbot. “I never heard that before.”

Since Luke had just invented it, that was hardly surprising.

“Seems there's a boy here—Tommy something—was in your office at one time. I've reason to believe they think that
he's
walking.”

Mr. Abbot's red face turned slightly purple.

“Tommy Pierce? A good for nothing, prying, meddlesome jackanapes.”

“Spirits always seem to be mischievous. Good law-abiding citizens seldom trouble this world after they've left it.”

“Who's seen him—what's this story?”

“These things are difficult to pin down,” said Luke. “People won't come out into the open with a statement. It's just in the air, so to speak.”

“Yes—yes, I suppose so.”

Luke changed the subject adroitly.

“The real person to get hold of is the local doctor. They hear a lot in the poorer cases they attend. All sorts of superstitions and charms—probably love philtres and all the rest of it.”

“You must get on to Thomas. Good fellow, Thomas, thoroughly up-to-date man. Not like poor old Humbleby.”

“Bit of a reactionary, wasn't he?”

“Absolutely pigheaded—a diehard of the worst description.”

“You had a real row over the water scheme, didn't you?” asked Bridget.

Again a rich ruddy glow suffused Abbot's face.

“Humbleby stood dead in the way of progress,” he said sharply. “He held out against the scheme! He was pretty rude, too, in what he said. Didn't mince his words. Some of the things he said to me were positively actionable.”

Bridget murmured: “But lawyers never go to law, do they? They know better.”

Abbot laughed immoderately. His anger subsided as quickly as it had arisen.

“Pretty good, Miss Bridget! And you're not far wrong. We
who are in it know too much about law, ha, ha. Well, I must be getting along. Give me a call if you think I can help you in any way, Mr.—er—”

“Fitzwilliam,” said Luke. “Thanks, I will.”

As they walked on Bridget said:

“Your methods, I note, are to make statements and see what they provoke.”

“My methods,” said Luke, “are not strictly truthful, if that is what you mean?”

“I've noticed that.”

A little uneasy, he hesitated what to say next. But before he could speak, she said:

“If you want to hear more about Amy Gibbs, I can take you to someone who could help you.”

“Who is that?”

“A Miss Waynflete. Amy went there after she left the Manor. She was there when she died.”

“Oh, I see—” he was a little taken aback. “Well—thank you very much.”

“She lives just here.”

They were crossing the village green. Inclining her head in the direction of the big Georgian house that Luke had noticed the day before, Bridget said: “That's Wych Hall. It's a library now.”

Adjoining the Hall was a little house that looked rather like a doll's house in proportion. Its steps were dazzlingly white, its knocker shone and its window curtains showed white and prim.

Bridget pushed open the gate and advanced to the steps.

As she did so the front door opened and an elderly woman came out.

She was, Luke thought, completely the country spinster. Her thin form was neatly dressed in a tweed coat and skirt and she wore a grey silk blouse with a cairn-gorm brooch. Her hat, a conscientious felt, sat squarely upon her well-shaped head. Her face was pleasant and her eyes, through their pince-nez, decidedly intelligent. She reminded Luke of those nimble black goats that one sees in Greece. Her eyes held just that quality of mild inquiring surprise.

“Good morning, Miss Waynflete,” said Bridget. “This is Mr. Fitzwilliam.” Luke bowed. “He's writing a book—about deaths and village customs and general gruesomeness.”

“Oh, dear,” said Miss Waynflete. “How
very
interesting.”

And she beamed encouragingly upon him.

He was reminded of Miss Pinkerton.

“I thought,” said Bridget—and again he noted that curious flat tone in her voice—“that you might tell him something about Amy.”

“Oh,” said Miss Waynflete. “About Amy? Yes. About Amy Gibbs.”

He was conscious of a new factor in her expression. She seemed to be thoughtfully summing him up.

Then, as though coming to a decision, she drew back into the hall.

“Do come in,” she said. “I can go out later. No, no,” in answer to a protest from Luke. “I had really nothing urgent to do. Just a little unimportant domestic shopping.”

The small drawing room was exquisitely neat and smelled faintly of burnt lavender. There were some Dresden china shepherds and shepherdesses on the mantelpiece, simpering sweetly. There were framed water-colours, two samplers, and three needle
work pictures on the wall. There were some photographs of what were obviously nephews and nieces and some good furniture—a Chippendale desk, some little satinwood tables—and a hideous and rather uncomfortable Victorian sofa.

Miss Waynflete offered her guests chairs and then said apologetically:

“I'm afraid I don't smoke myself, so I have no cigarettes, but do please smoke if you like.”

Luke refused but Bridget promptly lighted a cigarette.

Sitting bolt upright in a chair with carved arms, Miss Waynflete studied her guest for a moment or two and then dropping her eyes as though satisfied, she said:

“You want to know about that poor girl Amy? The whole thing was very sad and caused me a great deal of distress. Such a tragic mistake.”

“Wasn't there some question of—suicide?” asked Luke.

Miss Waynflete shook her head.

“No, no,
that
I cannot believe for a moment. Amy was not at all that type.”

“What type was she?” asked Luke bluntly. “I'd like to hear your account of her.”

Miss Waynflete said:

“Well, of course, she wasn't at
all
a good servant. But nowadays, really, one is thankful to get
anybody.
She was very slipshod over her work and always wanting to go out—well, of course she was young and girls
are
like that nowadays. They don't seem to realize that their time is their employer's.”

Luke looked properly sympathetic and Miss Waynflete proceeded to develop her theme.

“She wasn't the sort of girl I care for—rather a
bold
type though of course I wouldn't like to say much now that she's dead. One feels unchristian—though really I don't think that that is a logical reason for suppressing the truth.”

Luke nodded. He realized that Miss Waynflete differed from Miss Pinkerton in having a more logical mind and better processes of thought.

“She was fond of admiration,” went on Miss Waynflete, “and was inclined to think a lot of herself. Mr. Ellsworthy—he keeps the new antique shop but he is actually a gentleman—he dabbles a little in water-colours and he had done one or two sketches of the girl's head—and I think, you know, that rather gave her
ideas.
She was inclined to quarrel with the young man she was engaged to—Jim Harvey. He's a mechanic at the garage and very fond of her.”

Miss Waynflete paused and then went on.

“I shall never forget that dreadful night. Amy had been out of sorts—a nasty cough and one thing and another (those silly cheap silk stockings they will wear and shoes with
paper
soles practically—of course they catch chills) and she'd been to the doctor that afternoon.”

Luke asked quickly:

“Dr. Humbleby or Dr. Thomas?”

“Dr. Thomas. And he gave her the bottle of cough mixture that she brought back with her. Something quite harmless, a stock mixture, I believe. She went to bed early and it must have been about one in the morning when the noise began—an awful kind of choking scream. I got up and went to her door but it was locked on the inside. I called to her but couldn't get any answer. Cook was with me and we were both terribly upset. And then we went to the
front door and luckily there was Reed (our constable) just passing on his beat, and we called to him. He went round the back of the house and managed to climb up on the outhouse roof, and as her window was open he got in quite easily that way and unlocked the door. Poor girl, it was terrible. They couldn't do anything for her, and she died in Hospital a few hours later.”

“And it was—what—hat paint?”

“Yes. Oxalic acid poisoning is what they called it. The bottle was about the same size as the cough linctus one. The latter was on her washstand and the hat paint was by her bed. She must have picked up the wrong bottle and put it by her in the dark ready to take if she felt badly. That was the theory at the inquest.”

Miss Waynflete stopped. Her intelligent goat's eyes looked at him, and he was aware that some particular significance lay behind them. He had the feeling that she was leaving some part of the story untold—and a stronger feeling that, for some reason, she wanted him to be aware of the fact.

There was a silence—a long and rather difficult silence. Luke felt like an actor who does not know his cue. He said rather weakly:

“And you don't think it was suicide?”

Miss Waynflete said promptly:

“Certainly not. If the girl had decided to make away with herself, she would have bought something probably. This was an old bottle of stuff that she must have had for years. And anyway, as I've told you, she wasn't that
kind
of girl.”

“So you think—what?” said Luke bluntly.

Miss Waynflete said:

“I think it was very unfortunate.”

She closed her lips and looked at him earnestly.

Just when Luke was feeling that he must try desperately to say something anticipated, a diversion occurred. There was a scratching at the door and a plaintive mew.

Miss Waynflete sprang up and went to open the door, whereupon a magnificent orange Persian walked in. He paused, looked disapprovingly at the visitor, and sprang upon the arm of Miss Waynflete's chair.

Miss Waynflete addressed him in a cooing voice.

“Why Wonky Pooh—where's my Wonky Pooh been all the morning?”

The name struck a chord of memory. Where had he heard something about a Persian cat called Wonky Pooh? He said: